


allies in a time of war

by l_cloudy



Series: War and Snow [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AGOT, ASoIaF Kink Meme, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:51:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That one AU where Jon goes to war with Robb, and finds out he has more in common with Lady Catelyn than they both expected.<br/>Featuring brotherly bonding, Stark awesomness, and characters not getting killed off. Mostly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catelyn

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt _Jon goes to war with Robb in AGOT and Catelyn is surprised when she discovers that she and the boy share most of the same opinions. Slowly, they bond._  
>  The OP meant it to be a sort of fix-it!fic, I guess, in which Cat and Jon team up to avoid some of Robb stupidiest mistake, and they also make a pretty awesome team. I twisted the timeline a little - Jon finds out about the threat beyond the wall before taking his vows, but that's all, and I did it mostly because Robb needs to know about the Others, and Longclaw is cool.  
> I really, _really_ hope I didn't mess up the characterization. Catelyn is proving really hard to write.

**I**

Catelyn Stark, for her part, didn’t expect to see Jon Snow ever again after he went to the Wall, until that day at Moat Calin when he reappears in her life, standing shoulder to shoulder with her eldest son.

She hadn’t noticed him at first, though she now realizes she must have – she simply forgot to pay attention, focused how she was on Robb. And what was Jon Snow, but another nameless stranger? Catelyn had dismissed the other men in her mind even before they left the tent, and so it is only a hour into their reunion, after they talk of war and family and Sansa’s letters, that she finally puts the pieces together.

“There is no mention of  Arya,” Robb points out, his sister’s missive in his hand. “Jon thinks they must have lost her, somehow.”

Catelyn looks at her son, frowning. “Jon?” He might be referring to Jon Umber, or his heir, but there’s too much easiness in his voice for that to be the case.

Robb nods. “And I agree. They would care to let us know, if they had her.”

He doesn’t seem to have grasped the question, and Catelyn turns to look him in the eyes. “Robb,” she asks. “Robb, what is Jon doing here?”

It takes Catelyn the time of a heartbeat to go from surprise to discomfort, and when she looks upon her eldest son’s content face, all she sees is a severed head, rolling in the snow.

“Please tell me he didn’t desert,” she tells him, and the words are halfway through her mouth when Catelyn thinks how she’s never cared much for Jon Snow either ways, but she knows that Robb _does_ , and Ned, and she can imagine all too easily what is like for a Stark to be torn between affection and honor.

 _He had better not have_ , she thinks in flash, _Robb doesn’t deserve another tragedy_. And then she realizes she’s willing Jon Snow to live.

It is a moment before Robb speaks up, but it feels like a lifetime. “Of course he didn’t,” he says, sounding so much like Ned in one of his fits of righteous anger. “Mother, he didn’t. He received the message before he was to take the oath, and the Lord Commander let him go.”

And Catelyn takes her son’s word for good, and she spends another hour with Robb going over his maps and plans and wondering why he’s had to grow up so fast, and it’s dark outside when she finally sees Jon Snow face to face, when he comes into the tent bringing supper.

To Robb, he smiles. “Robb,” he says, firmly. “You must remember to eat.”

And to Catelyn he bows his head and, if his eyes narrow a bit, she can ignore it and so does he. “Lady Stark,” and his voice is mild and perfectly even, because there’s no point to waste time in mutual dislike. “He always forgets. I swear, if Old Nan were here, I am sure he wouldn’t.”

And then. “I brought some for you, too.”

Their supper is onion broth and heavy bread, and both Robb and Snow apologize, saying they only eat meat every other day, during the days. They jape and chat with the same easiness they did in Winterfell, and Catelyn takes some time for herself, to observe.

Where Robb has grown taller and sturdier and older, Jon Snow simply looks tired. She gives him a quick glance up and down, taking notice of  his bandaged right hand. Snow is clean shaven next to Robb’s growing stubble, and it makes him seem even paler. He looks more of a warrior than Robb does, more of a Northman, but there’s a wary air about him that no Stark has ever had. He doesn’t look like Ned never had, and for this she’s glad.

Snow catches her look and moves closer, making sure that Robb doesn’t notice. “Lady Catelyn –” he begins, then pauses. “Lady Catelyn. I just –” He widens his arms and shakes his head, taking a breath.

“He is my father, too.”

That, she concedes grimly, he is. And they both want him back – this, Catelyn can respect.

* * *

 

**II**

The Northmen march all the way to the Twins, to the Lord of the Crossing, and Catelyn is the one to be escorted all the way inside the castle to meet with Lord Walder.

They argue and waggle and raise their stakes until they are both too exhausted to talk anymore, and Catelyn returns back to Robb sure in the knowledge that she couldn’t have gotten better terms, and prepared to defend her choices.

Her son accepts his new squire easily enough, perhaps wondering how can he have Olyvar Frey knighted when he is not a knight himself, and agrees to the betrothals without even protesting, and Catelyn’s thoughts go back to Ned, and how proud he would be.

Jon Snow seeks her out the moment they have safely crossed the river, and Catelyn tries to remember if he has ever initiated a conversation with her before. She doesn’t think so.

“Lady Catelyn,” he starts, looking even tenser than usual. “ _What have you done?_ ”

He’s never talked to her like that – she cannot remember the last time anyone _has_ , and it is a while before she notices the indignation in his words. Whatever happened, Catelyn quickly realizes, he thinks to be in the right.

“What do you mean, Snow?”

And if that, _Snow_ , comes out too harsh, she is not the one who started.

“What did you promise Lord Frey?”

Catelyn represses the impulse to raise her eyebrows, trying to understand. Surely Snow didn’t resent her… “I offered him a marriage pact,” she begins, slowly. “Between _my_ son, _your_ liege,” she deliberately leaves out, _your brother_ , “in exchange for safe passage, and his support.”

“It is a battle, that we are going to fight. We are at war. Robb is a Stark, and he has a duty to his people. This is something lords do, Jon Snow.”

And she could add so much to that – how Robb will at least have his pick, and there’s plenty in Walder Frey’s brood to find someone he might come to care for, even love; how she herself has been, at one time, nothing more than a price Eddard Stark paid for her father’s men; how the choice was between accepting Lord Frey’s price or die on the banks of the Green Fork.

But she doesn’t add anything, because Jon Snow interrupts her before she can say a word.

“And what,” he asks, his voice as calm and firm as Catelyn’s own. “What about the other marriage pact? What about Arya?”

And suddenly, she understands.

Catelyn has always been aware of the bond between Ned’s bastard son and her own children, conscious of exactly how much time Snow spent sparring with Robb, playing with Bran, or making up stories and games to entertain Rickon. Of how close he was to Arya, her little Arya, her wild wolf girl who never wanted to be a proper lady and, frankly, will probably never be.

“So that is what is about,” she starts, trying to come up with the right words. “Arya is a Stark as well. She must do her duty.”

Snow grimaces. “Of course she must. She is also nine years old, Lady Stark, do you think she will like to have her life already planned out, without her consent?” His breath is slower now, and his words as well – he looks as though he is trying to keep his emotion in check, trying to show her some obvious fallacy she has somehow missed.

“Robb wasn’t enough.” Catelyn isn’t sure why she is explaining herself, her actions, to Jon Snow, but she goes on talking anyway. “And Bran is even younger. She was the only choice.”

Snow makes some sort of  strangled noise, as if he has chocked on his own words, and it is a while before he speaks. “But you do have an older daughter, my lady. What about Sansa?”

Cately pauses, at loss for words. _Sansa_. Somehow, Sansa hasn’t entered her thoughts at all today.

“Sansa is already betrothed.”

Snow laughs. “Why, milady, will you let her marry Joffrey Baratheon still, after everything? Will Lord Stark let it happen?”

Of course he will not. Cately hasn’t yet dared to imagine what could happen after, when this is all over and they are all safe and sound. Even her dreams stop once the war ends, but now for the first time she finds herself thinking of the future and realizes that yes, Snow is right. She has no wish to see Sansa married to King Joffrey, and Ned will never stand for it.

“The Freys aren’t important enough, isn’t that right? Not for Sansa.”

Snow stops at that, perhaps realizing that he has gone too far, but the implications of his words hang in the air between them. A Frey girl to take on the Stark name, that might be accepted, but for Sansa to become one of the, spend her life in the twin castles by the river? Not a life Catelyn would ever wish on her daughter, and yet this is what she just did.

She hasn’t ever thought in quite these terms, but now what is done is done, and there is no going back. They both know this, Catelyn realizing that she could have gotten better terms, and missed on the opportunity, and Jon, who has just overstepped himself, more than he’s ever dreamt of doing.

“Robb has accepted,” she tells him, with all the composure she can muster. “Robb has accepted, and we have crossed the river. It is done.”

Snow nods slowly, and Catelyn takes a moment before speaking up again. “I will not ask you to apologize for today, but you must not do this again.”

Snow looks at her and nods, and Catelyn knows she is simply stating the obvious. They both have no reason to talk to each other ever again; in fact, that of today is likely to be the longest conversation they have had – and ever will.

He is silent for the longest time, and Catelyn turns her back on him and is just about to go looking for Robb when Snow speaks up again. “She will hate it.”

She takes in a long breath, refusing to turn back. Of course Arya will hate it.

“I know she will. We will come to save her from King’s Landing, and Arya will think she’s just traded a prison for another. And I can’t do anything about it.”

That he cannot, and neither can she. _Because war is war, and sacrifices must be made_.

“Lady Stark,” he calls out, stopping her once again. “What do you think will happen, if we win?”

She doesn’t know, cannot say. What is a win at this point? Getting Ned back? Freeing her daughters? She wonders what will be of the king if they win, and what of the kingdom, remembering the last war and everything that came with it.

“Do you think –” Snow starts saying, then stops, pausing before speaking again. “Do you think that, if we win, Lord Frey might reconsider?”

Catelyn doesn’t think so, and she is about to speak out of honor and duty and sacrifice, but Snow keeps going.

“Do you think, if we win, that a victorious bastard might be worth a second daughter?”

Of all the think she expected Jon Snow to say, this surely wasn’t one of them.

And she turns on her back to glance at him, pale and cautious and looking about twelve years old, and expecting an answer.

“I cannot tell,” she says, and she honestly doesn’t. It depends on many, many things, winning the war and winning glory and staying alive as long as possible. Fortunes are made and broken in war, but no one should ever attempt to predict them. 

She went away and left him there, standing on the green, by the river.

* * *

**III**

The Whispering Wood, the men call it, and Catelyn can see why. In the night all is blurred, every colour and shape, and voices and sounds seem to come from every direction, chasing their own  twisted echoes, spinning all around her. The screams of dying men blend with victory cries and the clattering of the horses, and she can almost hear her heart beating out in her chest.

It is only when Robb is once again in front of her, unharmed and unhurt, that Catelyn allows herself to breathe freely again – and that only lasts until she lays her eyes on Theon Greyjoy and Jon Umber, Ser Jaime Lannister between them, and feels a surge of anger through her veins.

“Ser Jaime,” she calls out, spitting the words out of her mouth with all the distaste she can muster.

He is beaten and bloodied and yet still beautiful, his red-stained head shining under the light of the moon, and Catelyn wishes for a moment she were a man, to take her fury out on him with blows and swords rather than words.

It is only when Robb have carried him away than they can finally talk.

“The Kingslayer took off Torrhen Karstark’s hand,” he tells her, eyes wide, and Catelyn feels sympathy for him. A quick death in battle is one thing, maiming is another. She shivers.

“It was his sword hand,” her son continues. “He was shouting and calling for me, and Torrhen tried to stop him, and Lannister cut off his hand and just shoved him off, and went on Eddard next. If we’d been faster, we could have…”

She puts a hand on Robb’s shoulder, gently.

“Stop that,” she says. “It was not your fault, you needn’t worry. People die in battles, Robb, and you cannot let death stop you.”

“But we could have, mother.” He stared into her eyes, and he looked so young. “Eddard took on him right after, with Daryn Hornwood, and then Jon, and he had Ghost with him.”

Robb is talking in furious whispers now, and she is glad they are alone because he’s not a Lord anymore, he is a boy of sixteen and he needs his mother.

“They could have killed him, mother, they really could have.” She can almost see it, the fight, the blood. It goes on nicely with the screams in her mind. “It would have been faster than take him prisoner, and we wasted so much time, while Torrhen bleed out to death into the ground. Like he was some sort of – of animal, mother.”

Catelyn puts her arms around him and let him sob, like she has done with Ned the first time he’s had to claim a life. “He was my friend, and he’s dead when and Jaime Lannister is alive, and I hate it.”

Robb is shaking, his direwolf whimpering softly at his side, and she holds him and hopes everything will be well again. His cheeks are flushed when he pulls away, and Catelyn pretends she doesn’t notice, that she missed the flash of pink among the shadows of the woods.

They do not speak on the way to the tents, and Robb puts on a smile for the men. They are cheering – _And why shouldn’t they_ , Catelyn thinks, _after they have won such a great victory?_ – and soon her son joins in, acknowledging the bows and the toasts and the cries, his northmen singing and celebrating all around him.

She barely sees Jon Snow that night, only a quick glimpse over Galbert Glover’s shoulder. He has a bandaged shoulder, his white direwolf at his feet, and is looking at Robb, she notices, with a sort of intense gaze she has seen in her mirror more often than not. Their eyes meet for a moment and then he turns back to Robb, and Catelyn knows what he is thinking because she is thinking the same thing. _We are still here. He is alive. We kept him safe._

And indeed they did.

* * *

**IV**

The King in the North, they are screaming into the night. The King in the North, every cheer a nail digging into her soul. It is not enough that this war has claimed Ned already, Ned who has been her love and rock and the centre of her life these past fifteen years, now they mean to have her son as well.

She should be rejoicing, Catelyn knows that. Ned’s death is still an open wound to all of them, but word has just come that their enemy is divided – they might win this war. They are winning this war, wherever it may lead.

Yet she cannot help it but feeling scared, despite everything. Robb should not have to see her like this any less than he should have a mother’s watchful eyes over him tonight, and so left him to go wander about the castle of her childhood, watching memories spin back to life.

Her feet bring her to the Godswood for the second time that day, to her husband’s bastard son standing by the tree.

She seems to be meeting him everywhere these days, Catelyn observes with cool detachment, even if they haven’t talked since the day they crossed the Green Fork. Or perhaps it is simply the fact that he no longer makes sure to stay out of her way like he used to do in Winterfell. There is a sort of grim hilarity in that, knowing she is no longer as scary as she used to be. Not scarier than a  rebellion, anyway.

Snow is sitting under the tree, that wolf of his tailing him as close as Grey Wind does Robb, and she thinks he might be crying. _Strange how death changes things_ , Catelyn thinks. One year ago, maybe even one week, she would have resented Snow that, his sorrow just another reminder of what he is, but she is too tired to resent anything today.

 _Ned is dead_ , she reminds suddenly for the third time in one hour. Odd, how she keeps forgetting. _Dead, and not coming back. Not tomorrow, not ever_.

This is when Snow turns around and sees her standing there. He was indeed crying, red eyes and wet cheeks, and he winces a little before stopping rather abruptly, as if deciding there is no much point in feeling awkwardness anymore. Catelyn sympathizes.

“Lady Catlyn,” he calls out, his voice low. “Are you w–” and then he stops, wincing for real this time, knowing that not, she is not well, same as he, and won’t be again for a long time.

They both stand in silence after that, and she is glad.

It is he that breaks the silence, in the end.

“I agreed with you,” Snow blurts out, almost apologetic. They have never agreed before, never had anything to agree on, and it makes no difference to her; still he wants her to know. “A peace would have been better. A peace, to mourn our deaths and put things together. But –”

He trails off, and Catelyn is surprised. She would have expected Snow to seek revenge – he has never been anything but fiercely loyal to Ned, and he deliberately left a safe place at the Wall to join Robb’s host. She realizes she must have told him as much out loud, because he answer her.

“Revenge is selfish. Is for those who have nothing to lose, no life left to live,”  and Catelyn wonders if he is thinking of what he’s left back at the Wall, the fight he told Robb about, and her own thoughts go to Winterfell and Bran and Rickon instead.

“I cannot say I dislike the idea, though,” he continues, and doesn’t look at her. “He is all I had.”

This is one of the oddest conversation Catleyn has ever had, trying to make sense out of Jon Snow’s thoughts in the wake of her husband’s death. It is still better than grieving, a cold, calculating voice in her mind tells her, and she finds herself talking to Snow – truly talking, for the first time in her life.

“There is still Robb.”

And she knows she is not talking about Snow anymore.

He seems to agree some. “I suppose there is. He is still my Lo – my King, now.” He looks at her again. “Gods he must be hating it inside.”

 _He must_ , she thinks, and Snows continues, in an oddly cheerful note. “He will make a good king.”

That he will, Catelyn knows. _He will, Ned. I know he will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [on tumblr](http://www.justoldlights.tumblr.com/) a lot lately. It's a thing.


	2. Jon

**I**

Robb does indeed make a good king. He is young and kind and brave, gallant and strong, and his men love him.

 _He is everything a true king should be_ , Jon muses as he watches the bronze crown shining amidst his brother’s auburn curls, and feels a twinge of shame remembering how he once thought the same of Jaime Lannister.

Being king also carries a share of unpleasant duties, as Robb Stark has learned soon enough, and yet Jon can’t help but be glad every time he sees dark shadows under his brother’s eyes, or feels his anger after a meeting with his lords. If he didn’t, perhaps he would be jealous of Robb, resent him, and that is the last thing Jon wants.

They talk that night as they usually do, Jon making his way to Lord Hoster’s solar after everyone else has left, to find Robb glaring at his maps.

“My mother refuses to leave,” his brother begins, without even looking at Jon. “Doesn’t she realize how close to the fighting we are?”

Jon moves closer, glancing at Robb’s map. It shows the entirety of the riverlands, from Seagard to Harrenhall, and the lands south of that, to Lannisport in the west and King’s Landing in the east. _The whole theatre of the war_ , Jon thinks. There is another war even further south, between Robert’s brothers and his widow, but that is not their fight.

He realizes that Robb is looking at him now, with the expectant air of someone wanting an answer, even if there wasn’t a question in the first place. Jon almost shrugs, before remembering that Robb is a king now, and he should try and act proper.

“She would want to stay close to her father, Robb. He is dying.”

Jon has never seen Hoster Tully for himself, and usually makes sure to avoid Lady Catelyn’s family, and their people, as much as he can. Perhaps he wouldn’t have, once, but if there is one thing he has learnt during his training with ser Thorne at the Wall, it is to avoid trouble.

Yet he doesn’t need to see it with his eyes, not when Lord Tully’s illness is the chat of the castle. Even more than the war, even more than  the King in the North, Hoster Tully’s agony is what people are talking about, how long he has left, as if they had nothing better than wait for him to die. Knowing a loved one will die and not when, Jon has privately thought once or twice, must be worse than finding out suddenly like it happened to Father.

“Still, it is too close. It’s too close.”

It is a while before any of them speaks up again, Robb grasping his hands and staring at the maps, and Jon looking at his brother and noticing his tightened lips and tired eyes.

“I told her to go with Mallister, or to the Twins,” Robb starts again. “But you are right, she would never leave. Still, it worries me.”

Jon laughs, glad for the opportunity to change the tone of the discussion. “I can go to the Twins if you want. Line up all the girls, choose the pretty ones.” Robb laughs as well at that, despite everything.

“Although I suppose Theon would serve you better in that.”

Robb smiles once again. “I suppose he would. But he is leaving on the morrow.”

“You will have to make do with me, then.”

It feels good, to talk like this, and Jon imagines he can almost ignore the unfamiliar room, the odd sights of the river outside the window, and pretend they are still at Winterfell.

“Is Theon going with Lord Mallister, as well?”

Robb has make a most unusual choice, Jon muses, to send an Iroborn to Seagard. But then again, Jason Mallister is pleasant man, and good one by all accounts, and does not seem the kind of man who would resent another for his blood – even a Greyjoy.

“Yes. And he will go to the Iron Islands after that – to send a message to his father.”

It doesn’t sound much like something the Lady Catelyn would approve, but Jon doesn’t say as much. Instead he looks at Robb.

“Is that wise?”

Robb must have already heard more than enough on the matter, because he makes a face.

“Not you, too, Jon. Theon has been a hostage far too long – he deserves to see his family.”

Jon takes in his brother’s face, red from the times he’s rubbed his eyes awake, and his posture, tired and slouched, and lets it go.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” he says with a bow of his head.

Robb narrows his eyes and looks as if trying to determine whether his brother is being serious or jesting, and Jon decides to help him settle the matter once and for all.

“But you should really be careful with that frown, You Grace. It is not very kingly at all…”

* * *

 

**II**

The battle of the Whispering Wood has been bloody and then Oxcross has been bloodier, but Ashemark Castle, Jon decides, is the bloodiest of them all. It is also mostly his own fault.

He has never fought in the front lines before today, always in the midst of the ranks, and Ghost has never had the freedom  to roam the battlefield Grey Wind does, mostly staying close to Jon and attacking those who tried to fight him – until today.

Jon is cleaning his sword when Dacey Mormont approaches and sits next to him, carrying her own arm, a sturdy battleaxe. _Take care of your weapon_ , Jon can almost hear his father’s voice saying, as he trails the coarse cloth on the length of the blade. The steel is clean now, cleared of what little blood there was to begin with, the blade shining and perfect as it was the day it was forget, and Jon  exhales slowly, wishing he could feel the same.

“I think I know that sword,” Dacey said, glancing from above Jon’s shoulder. She was tall for a woman, and willowy, nothing like the Old Bear, and yet there was some Jeor Mormont’s fiery stubbornness in her.

“You might,” Jon concedes, shrugging. “Lord Commander Mormont gave it to me.”

“Oh.”

She looks at him at that, and then at the sword once again, biting on her lower lip, and Jon feels compelled to add something else.

“He did have a new hilt made, though,” he tells Dacey, pointing at it. “The old one was – well, he thought I might like this better.”

She laughs, a low, deep sound, and Jon tries to remember when the last time he heard a woman  laugh. Some kitchen maid in Riverrun, the night Robb was proclaimed king. Before that, he is not sure. It might have been on the night of Robert’s welcoming feast, back in Winterfell, a whole lifetime ago.

They stay there for a while, sat on that low, pale rock by the horses, and Jon wonders what Dacey Mormont and Lady Maege think of their House’s ancestral weapon in the hands of Ned Stark’s bastard. Perhaps they expect him to offer to return it, and perhaps he ought to. It would be the proper thing to do, Jon knows, and yet he doesn’t want to. _If they want it, they can ask_.

“It was an interesting fight,” Dacey says, lightly, as if they were in a lord’s holdfast, discussing gossip over a goblet of wine. They are outside a lord’s holdfast instead, discussing the men they’ve killed over their own graves, and Jon cannot help but see a certain irony in that.

“That direwolf of yours, Snow, never imagined he had it in him,” she continues. “It is a _he_ , is it not? Like the king’s?”

She sounds mildly interested and casual, sounding every bit like Sansa does when she’s putting on lady’s airs and  to chat boys with Jeyne Poole, and Jon almost laughs. “Aye,” he tells her. “He is named Ghost.”

“A fit name,” Dacey mumbles, and Jon privately agrees. Ghost has been so quiet during the battle, so silent. Lord Marbrand’s men didn’t know he was almost on them until he was, and by then they were all dead. Jon barely had to use his sword at all, and he offered to help bury the bodies, later. It was his duty, after all, and not many others wanted to.

He realizes he is looking at the graves, and Dacey is, as well, until she turns her head and their eyes meet.

“Mother says we are marching in two hours, ” she says, and Jon is relieved. He cannot wait to leave Ashemark. “To the Crag. And we are winning,”

And then she continues, in an odd, small voice Jon cannot quite place. “We are winning. Aren’t we?”

* * *

 

**III**

Jon makes his way through the corridors of the Crag, pushing away confused servants and men-at-arms, cursing the turmoil of the fortress.

It has been hours since the end of the battle, and yet this is the first occasion he has had time to go look for Robb. His brother has gone inside two days ago with some of his lords, to accept Lord Westerling’s  surrender, wounded and bleeding, leaving Jon to look after the men he left behind, and they haven’t seen each other since.

He is brought back to reality by an elbow in his ribs and he gasps, more out of surprise than pain.

“Careful!”

Jon lowers his gaze and finds himself looking in the eyes of a pretty girl, with a round, fresh face that reminds him of Sansa. The two of them must be of an age, he thinks, and there is something of Sansa’s studied posture in her, as well.

Thinking of Sansa makes Jon think of Septa Mordane and her polished manners.

“I am sorry,” Jon tells the girl, obviously a daughter of the house.

She takes in Jon’s faces and clothes. “Are you a northman? I thought all of the soldiers were supposed to stay out of the castle, your king said. Aren’t you disobeying your orders?”

 _More Arya than Sansa, then_. He almost smiles at her boldness.

Almost, before he remembers.

“I am looking for the king,” he tells her. “They let me in, after – after they heard.”

Sympathy dawns in her eyes, and Jon knows she does not need to ask him what is that he is talking about. She must have heard as well, everyone has.

“Oh,” she says, her eyes bigger, and Jon wonders how pitiful they must seem now, to have sympathy for the people whose home they have just conquered.

“I am Lady Eleyna Westerling,” she tells him. “Lord Westerling is my father; I can tell you where the king is. He – he is faring better, some.”

“Lady Eleyna,” Jon answers, not really paying attention. “It is a beautiful name.” His mind is still on Sansa, and Arya, and whether he will ever see them again.

Eleyna looks expectant, as though she is waiting for something, and Jon blinks and starts back at her until she shakes her head and turns her back on him, starting in the direction where he has come from.

It is five minutes until she shows him to a corridor, and Jon can see a closed door at the end.

“Your king is here. There is guards at the door, you can give your message to them.” She looks at him once again and Jon realizes he forgot to introduce himself.

“It is all right,” he tells her. “I need to go in. Thank you, milday.”

The guards are two men from Karhold, and they like him well enough – most of the Karstark men do, after the Whispering Wood, after Ghost took in on Jaime Lannister’s horse so that he missed Eddard Karstark’s head by half a foot. They like him enough to give him more pitying looks.

“I am sorry, Snow,” one says  while opening the door, and Jon, who has fought and killed and led men to their deaths, feels as if he were about to cry like baby Rickon.

His brother is sitting on the bed when he comes in, looking out of the window. When he turns around Jon notices how his shield arm has been bandaged and tied around his neck somehow, how he has his shirt is half undone, and a pelt thrown about his shoulders.

Jon notices all this because looking at Robb’s arm and his shirt is easier than looking at his face, and so he stands in the middle of the room until his brother speaks up.

“I shouldn’t have sent Theon away.”

His voice sounds small and weak and broken and, most of all, Jon cannot deny his words. He has thought the same himself, since hearing the news, how it all might have gone differently had Robb still held Theon Greyjoy hostage.

It might have, Jon thinks. It likely would have, and yet it is not the thought of Robb that sends him in a rage. It is not Robb the one he wants to kill, it is not Robb he blames.

“Robb,” he begins, trying to find the words. “It wasn’t you who did it.”

His brother’s mouth twists and his hands clench, and he stands up. “I might as well. You told me as much, didn’t you? _It is not wise?_ ”

“Robb.” Jon makes to move towards his brother and then stops, the aborted movement catching his brother’s attention, making him breathe out slowly. “It wasn’t you who led men against Winterfell. It wasn’t you who fought. And it wasn’t you who –” it is Jon’s turn to clench his hands now. “It wasn’t you who put it to the torch.”

And there it is, the words he hasn’t dared to speak since the moment he heard about it, until now; and now it’s real.

Robb sits back on the bed, looking as though he has aged five years in two days, and Jon dares to move closer. “You know,” his brother begins, his voice more cheerful than Jon expected. “This is what Jeyne says, as well. I think you two might get along.”

Jon moves closer, taking the room’s only chair and sitting himself by Robb. “Oh? And who is Jeyne?”

“Lord Westerling’s daughter,” Robb smiles, and Jon frowns.

“I thought her name was Eleyna. Brown hair, about two-and-ten, talks like Arya would?”

Robb smiles again, but there is something wrong about his voice, something Jon cannot quite place. “Eleyna is the youngest one. She – she has been carrying messages, I think. Jeyne – she has been helping me recover.”

Jon glances again at Robb’s arm again. It looks better, much better than it first had two days ago, when he has gotten a pike in it while they fought to pass through the breach in the walls. 

“I am glad you are better.” Jon himself remembers his burnt hand and the shoulder wound  he received from the Kingslayer in the Whispering Wood, and he is familiar with the annoyance that comes with not being able to use an arm.

“So am I,” Robb says.

And then, after a while.

“I really should have sent someone else to Balon. Anyone else. Even Mallister would have been a better choice.”

“I imagine you could have sent me,” Jon says lightly, trying to distract Robb. But he has never been good at jesting – that was Greyjoy’s talent. “And sent Greyjoy to pick your bride instead. He would never have kept his hands to himself and Frey would have killed him, and you wouldn’t have to worry anymore.”

His brother’s eyes widen, and he winces suddenly.

“Robb?” Jon moves to touch him, and he moves away abruptly. “Robb. Is something the matter?”

“I am not marrying a Frey, Jon,” Robb says, low enough that it might be a whisper, and Jon thinks he might have heard wrong at first.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Robb says, calmer, even lower. “I will not marry any of Walder Frey’s daughters.”

Jon finds himself wondering if Robb is running a fever. He might be, after the injury. He might even have a corruption of some sort – who knows how the Westerlings treated his wounds? They are Lord Tywin’s bannermen, after all, and men of the westerlands, who might not be as strict about honor as people in the North are.

“Are you well, Robb?”

Robb shakes his head, and laughs. “I am well enough,” he says.

“I think I made a mistake, Jon.” He is not looking at him, glancing out of the window to the men – his men – camped outside, waiting for their king. And then he laughs again. “I will marry someone else.”

“Robb,” Jon begins, speaking as slowly as his brother is doing. “You are not making sense. Should I call the maester?”

 “Jon.” The king’s voice is louder, this time, and clearer. “You needn’t call the master. I am well enough.”

Jon looks at him, trying to make sense of his words. “Then what it is?”

“I am going to marry Jeyne Westerling, Jon. As soon as –”

“You can’t!”

Jon cuts him off, not realizing he raised his voice until he finds himself repeating, lower. “You cannot do that, Robb. You gave your word.”

“And – even if you hadn’t, we are _at war_ , with the Lannisters. You can’t marry one of them.”

“Jeyne is not a Lannister,” Robb tells him, still not looking him in the eyes. “And it is not her family’s fault that we are at war.”

“Robb. Robb, listen at me.” Jon moves close enough that they are almost touching, putting his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “You cannot marry her. You made a promise, you gave your word, you –”

“I did wrong by her.” His brother says, in a whispers. “I _dishonored_ her, and she does not deserve that from me.”

 _Oh_. Jon steps away from his brother and, _of course_ he did and, _of course_ he wants to make it right. Robb is honorable, he always has been. He feels the familiar twinge of regret – what if Father had done the same with his mother, what of him then? – and forces himself to shake his head.

“Robb,” he calls. “You still cannot.”

His brother seems to cringe at that, staring at Jon right in the eyes for the first time that night, looking as though he does not believe what he has just heard. _And he has the right of it. I almost don’t believe it myself._

“Why Jon,” he says, sounding as vicious as Theon Greyjoy in one of his moods. “I never would have expected you, of all people, to –”

Jon cuts him off with a punch, feeling a flash of pain in his knuckles and  salty blood in his mouth where Robb has hit him right back.

They stand in front of each other after that, both starting warily, until Jon hears a laugh and realizes it’s coming from him. “Do you – ” he begins, and then stops to laugh again.

“Do you think that was treason, Your Grace?” He asks when he has had enough air. “Punching the king in the jaw?”

Robb is staring at him as if he were crazy, and Jon thinks he might as well be. _Grief makes strange things to men_.

“Listen,” he begins again, calmer. “You cannot marry her. I am sorry, Robb, I am so sorry – but you cannot. You need to leave now, and send a letter to your uncle Edmure telling him to plan a wedding as soon as he is done playing chase with Tywin Lannister.”

There is understanding in Robb’s eyes, and sadness, and anger. _He knows I am right_ , Jon thinks, _he knows what I am saying is right, and he hates me for telling him_.

“As for Lady Jeyne, you needn’t see her.” His brother makes to protest, and Jon speaks up again before he can. “You mustn’t. I will – I will go and seek her out and explain, and no one else will ever know. I’ll get her moon tea, no one will think it strange.”

He is a bastard, it was almost expected of him. Jon rememberes Greyjoy telling him as much when he was thirteen, about moon tea and pansy and, _Lord Eddard won’t like it when you show up with a bastard’s bastard, Snow._ He knows more than enough about it, it will have to suffice.

“I will get her moon tea,” Jon continues, trying to hurry before his voice breaks. “She will never tell and no one will need to know.”

He snaps his mouth closed before he can say something else, something stupid, and to mask the tremor in his voice. He stands in front of his king with his fists clasped and a twitching in his right eyes, Robb staring back at him with a mixture of grief and anger on his face.

“I think you should go, Jon,” he says, voice raw and bitter.

And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A question to my readers: I know there are lots of theories, on westeros.org and the like, about WTH is the deal with the Westerlings, about Maggy the Frog, and if maybe they pushed Jayne in Robb’s arms for some reason. So, I ask you. Which directions do you want me to go, sweet innocent Jeyne, or do you want to be more to it?
> 
> BTW, I really, really wanted Jon to make the Theon bit go differently, but the story and the characters wouldn’t let me. Which is a shame, because Theon is too good a character to sufer so much, and I wanted Jon in the Iron Islands so bad. (Because Asha. That would be hysterical.)
> 
> Sadly, it wouldn’t have worked. Character wise, plot wise, and pretty much everything, but that didn’t stop me from dreaming an AU in which Robb sent Jon to the Iron Islands, and a short Jon-and-Asha AU scene will be added at the end, just so you know.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm [on tumblr](http://www.justoldlights.tumblr.com/) a lot lately. It's a thing. Prompt me stuff?


	3. Jon II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo, here’s Jon again. It _was_ supposed to be Cat, but the story didn’t agree with me. Actually I hate this chapter, as there's lots of boys playing war and other things I'm really bad at writing, but I am glad is done so I can go back to - _gasp!_ \- having the characters all in the same place once again. Also, I freely acknowledge that Jon is getting terribly like his _Dance_ version – in other words, emo, and annoyingly sarcastic when he’s not being emo. Sorry ‘bout that.
> 
>  **Also** , has anyone else'd had problems updating recently? It's a couple of days that I can't seem to use the _Rich text_ feature - I have to do formatting manually with HTML and it takes forever. Argh.
> 
> So, I'm [on tumblr](http://www.justoldlights.tumblr.com/) a lot lately. It's a thing. Prompt me stuff?

**I**

_“She did what?"_

Jon doesn’t think he has ever seen Robb so angry. Not when he first came back from the Wall to find him rallying his bannermen and preparing for war, not even when they first had news of their father’s death. The first time Robb was more surprised and scared than anything else, and the second time he was too shocked to really feel anything – they all were. 

This time, he feels betrayed, and hurt. He’s furious.

“She knows how much – how could she?” He is half screaming, half stuttering, his voice broken and chocked, and the messenger is clearly out of his wits with fear. 

The man, one of Ser Ryger’s retainers, looks as though he might be afraid for his own life, and Jon hides a smile. There are many stories spreading about the Young Wolf, he thinks, amused, and it seems like even Robb’s own men believe them.

“Ser Desmond writes as much, Your Grace,” the messenger tell Robb, head bowed and staring at the floor. It would make an amusing picture on any other day. “He says the Lady Catelyn was mad from grief, and she –”

“I have read the message,” Robb interrupts him, and the man winces.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Robb is clutching the message in his hand so tightly that is knuckles are white, and makes his way to the stroll in the middle of the tent, sitting down slowly. 

“You are not to tell this to anyone.”

The messenger moves for the first time, started, raising his head to look at Jon, who is staring at him expectantly. 

“Of course –” he begins, then stops, as if pondering whether he should add m’lord. In the end, he doesn’t, and Jon suppresses another smile.

“You should go back to Ser Ryger,” Jon adds, and the man falters, eyes twitching towards Robb. Jon can easily follow his thoughts – he is neither a knight nor a lord and nor noble, but the king is not saying anything. _Of course, had he been looking at his king instead of his feet he would have seen the glares Robb has been sending him…_

The messenger seems to come to a decision, bowing to Robb once again and leaving the tent. As soon as he leaves, Robb puts his head in his hands, fingers covering his eyes. 

“There’s no need for him to talk,” he says, and Jon knows he is true. “The news must be already spreading.”

Of course it is, and there is nothing they can do about it.

“Lord Karstark will be furious. Eddard, as well.”

 _I know, Robb,_ Jon wants to say. _Stop torturing yourself_. But it is in his brother’s nature to let his worries fester in his mind, over and over, and Jon himself has done the same thing enough times to know that there is nothing he can say so that Robb will stop blaming himself. 

“The Karstarks will be furious, and they won’t be afraid to show it,” Jon begins, trying to bring Robb’s attention to future deeds rather than past ones. “Others might do so in silence. You should go talk to your lords, Robb, offer them something.”

“And what can I offer them? Our best asset is gone – and why did she do that, after everything – ”

“She was grieving,” Jon interrupts him. “Like Ser Desmond wrote. She was grieving and she did something foolish. I remember you doing something similar yourself, Your Grace.”

Robb raises his head to look at him, a flash of pure rage in his eyes. That’s good, Jon finds himself thinking, oddly detached. They haven’t discussed Jeyne Westerling since the day they left the Crag, and Robb has not laid his eyes on her for even longer, and Jon knows his brother well enough to understand how guilty he still feels, he would never want to be reminded of her even again.

And yet Jon knows Robb well enough to hear the bitterness and despair in his brother’s voice as well, bitterness and despair that would be of no use. Rage and anger will serve him well enough. 

“I think you might be overstepping yourself,” Robb tells him in a low whisper and he doesn’t add, Jon. He never seems to call him by his name, lately. There is an uneasiness between them since the Crag, a pleasant, sociable friendship that is infinitely more polite and formal than the close bond they used to share, and Jon hates it. He suspects that Robb might as well, but he needs time still.

“I think I might have,” Jon answers him, and then swiftly clears his throat. “You might want to wait for news from Ser Edmure, and from King’s Landing as well, before meeting with your lords. That way they will have something else to distract them with.”

“Edmure,” Robb murmurs, as if remembering something. “Of course.”

And then he laughs a strained, bitter laugh. “I will give my lords something to discuss, aye. Will a wedding be enough?”

* * *

**II**

Edmure Tully send news of Tywin Lannister’s army two days later.

“They crossed the river,” the Blackfish says to Robb. “All haughty and shouting and thinking they were so bloody clever, never stopping a moment to wonder how in the seven hells they will manage to go back.”

“Let’s hope they will not stop at Riverrun, though I doubt it – Lord Tywin will not suffer us in lis lands for the time that it will take him to lay siege. He will find us in three days, if we are lucky.” 

His brother repeats as much to his commanders later that day. “We need to have him east of Deep Den,” he points on the map, a detailed one of the westerlands they took at Ashmark. “Right here. We need to make him annoyed enough he will rush to us, arrogant enough he will underestimate us …” 

And they do, playing chase along the Tumblestone and in the western hills, running like cat and mouse for days on end. Edmure and the men they’ve left in the riverlands are too far away to get to Robb’s forces in time and remain where they are, leaving the King in the North with a small army that doesn’t have enough men to crash Tywin on the field and is still too big to trust it won’t be noticed. They split on the eighth day.

It is Robb’s own plan, of course, because most of their plans are; Robb Stark is not a king who lets others win his battles, and his men love him for that. Jon wasn’t with him when he first came up with his new strategy, but he came into the his brother’s later on and stayed long enough to have a good look at the maps and take notice of the easy victory they promised. He even managed to go seek out the Blackfish and make him listen to some ideas and judge some others, and repeat everything to Robb that very evening, for his lords and everyone to see.

“Three, Your Grace” Jon offers, when his brother offers they divide their host into two smaller armies, one to lead Tywin across the coast and another to take him by surprise from the south. _Castamere, that’s fitting._

“A third part, as a decoy. If Tywin Lannister suspects what we are doing it won’t work – but if he does suspect, and he sends out scouts to look for another army, this way he will find it.”

And Robb looks at him tilting his head on a side, probably wondering why Jon didn’t come to him before to discuss this in private. Maybe he even feels guilty for their seemingly endless discussions, thinking he drove Jon away – it is not the case bur Robb, the Young Wolf and, before that, the prized heir to the Lord of Winterfell, will never understand the crushing need Jon feels to prove himself in front of others. 

And the more people there are, the better. Lords and warriors and knights, all glancing at him pensive, thinking perhaps they judged him too quickly, or too harshly, or not at all; and it might not be the kind of recognition Jon had once dreamed of, but he craves it all the same. Some seem even impressed, the Greatjon eyeing him in what might have been an appreciative way, and he gets the command of the decoy group, because none of the lords wanted to miss the real fight.

Some of Robb’s youngest companions apparently do, however, Dacey and Daryn Hornwood and some of the others, and Jon is glad, because this way he won’t have to die alone if Tywin decides he isn’t satisfied with knowing where they are and decide to send his knights instead of his scouts. The men are glad as well, Jon thinks, during a burst of bitterness that surprises even him, because this way they can all pretend they aren’t following a bastard.

When he is about to leave, he to go in one direction and Robb in another, he is suddenly reminded of the last time they parted and everything that happened since. They haven’t dared to send out ravens, and still don’t know a thing about what is happening in King’s Landing – it might be that Stannis won, Jon hopes, or he might not have, and there has still be no word of Bran and Rickon’s fates. 

It is a parting as sour as their first one was sweet with all the hopes of summer, and he finds himself wishing he knew how to make it better. But Jon has never had an easy way with words, too shy and wary of what he might say, and he doesn’t say a thing. _We’ll talk when this is over,_ he wants to say, but he doesn’t.

He remembers well enough how well _that_ went, the first time around.

* * *

**III**

They don’t die.

Tywin Lannister’s men found the northmen on the coast easily enough, and Jon’s much smaller group some two days later, with Ghost in tow. Everyone has heard stories of the Young Wolf and his beast, and no one imagines that there might be two of them, the Lannisters so reassured they have discovered – and foiled – Robb Stark’s plan that they don’t stop to think.

They do not die, but it’s a close thing. Tywin Lannister has always been a cautious man, cold and relentless, and it might as well be the only reason why they all survived.

Had it been anyone else, had it been Robb, he would have made it so to be in the group that went to destroy the enemy, fighting in the front lines, like his brother had done in the Whispering Wood. But 

Tywin Lannister did not do his enemy’s bidding, did not feel any pleasure in killing them with his own hands. He had his enemies killed and brought to him, and he went off to fight the larger army on the coast leaving his cousin Ser Daven to deal with the supposed Robb Stark.

Tywin Lannister falls right into Robb’s trap and gets his host crushed between anvil and hammer, and barely makes it out with his life, or so Jon is told later on. Ser Daven has the bad luck of attacking under a leaden sky that quickly turns into a thunderstorm, lightings scaring his horses and reducing his numerical advantage. Jon is the one who barely makes it out with his life this time, he and his men wet and bloodied running away like mad, only stopping short of killing the horses.

“You know what I think?” Dacey tells him when they finally stop for good, after what feels like a lifetime. “I think we won.”

One of the men, an archer from Seagard, shot down a raven the first time they had to slow down to make the horses rest; a Lannister raven. They have won, s safe enough to say it, and Dacey starts laughing as if she were telling the greatest joke in the world.

“I think we won, and I think we might be fucked. I think we are the only thing between Tywin and his Rock.” 

She has to stop laughing soon enough, and Jon think that one of her ribs might be broken, but by then he has started laughing as well. It is funny, that they have won and yet have to stay hidden waiting until Tywin Lannister decides he wants to go home, still and silent because being found would mean death and attacking would be suicidal. 

But it only takes him a moment to realize that he is not the only one who’s come to that very conclusion, and the others seem to like it a great deal more than he does. 

“No.” 

He looks from Dacey to Daryn. “Oh, no, you cannot be serious.” 

“I am not proposing we go looking for him,” Dacey begins, sounding perfectly reasonable. “I am proposing we stop somewhere, somewhere he might pass through, and we see how it goes.” 

Except, the Lannisters surely know the western hills better than any northman could. Except that all Tywin would have to do would be sending a single scout along the way, and it would be over. 

He might say all of that, but he does not, because he understands the thirst for glory that comes with thinking, _I might be the one to slay Tywin Lannister,_ more than anyone else could. 

“They knows we are here,” is what he says, instead.

“They know someone was here, and they think we are all dead,” Daryn Hornwood intervenes. “Truth be told, we _should_ be.” 

“We wouldn’t have to seek him out,” Daryn continues, as if trying to convince him, and Jon knows that letting him talk is probably the single most idiotic thing he has ever done in his life. “We hide up in some pass, if things seems to be going our way we start throwing arrows. Think of what the crannogmen do in the Neck.” 

He lowers his voice at that, glancing around to see if there are any Freys near. There are, fifty archers, but no one seems to hear him. 

Crannogmen _live_ in the Neck, northmen live in the North and Lannister _live_ in the westerlands, but caution seems a meager thing next to glory. 

In the end there is no glory to be won, when Tywin’s men do not take the way of the hills at all. Jon is not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved, but most of all wonders which way Lannister went, and if he is even going back to Casterly Rock at all. 

They reach the rest of the northern host three days later, some two or three hours after the sunset, and Jon makes sure to make as much noise as he can. _It wouldn’t do,_ he thinks, _to be taken for Lannisters._

They are met by some of Ser Brynden’s outriders, who lead them into the camp in silence, not saying a single word. Jon is quite content with that at first – he has no wish to engage in some pointless conversation, too nervous, too jumpy. News must surely have come of King’s Landing by now, and yet he cannot bring himself to ask their guide about it. As long as he doesn’t know, he can pretend it all went well.

It’s when they arrive at camp and are met by the Blackfish himself, wearing a sombre, serious face that Jon realizes something must be wrong. He is about to burst standing there, consumed by his own impatience, when the man looks at him.

“Snow,” he says, “come walk with me.”

Jon respects Ser Brynden very much and, although the he has a feeling it's not quite mutual, it seems to be close enough for Jon’s tastes. Still the man is a Tully through and through, and they have never had a conversation alone that he can remember, at least not one in which they haven’t discussed battle strategies. As the man keeps walking, leading him away from prying hears, Jon cannot help but realize that something must be very, very wrong.

He stops abruptly. “Where are we going?” 

The Blackfish doesn’t turn and does not stop, merely slowing down. “To the king’s tent,” he says, and Jon knows.

“Whatever happened,” he urges, moving closer to the other man and lowering his voice. “You can tell me now. He doesn’t need to know you told me, just –” 

“He wants to see you.” Ser Brynden cuts off.

Of course he wants, Jon thinks. He must be in desperate need of someone to share it with, whatever dark words he received. And, for the same reason, Jon cannot afford to break in front of Robb, no matter what he will say. He must be strong, he knows.

_And it would be so much easier if I knew what to expect._

“No.” He speaks up again. “You tell me now, before he does. What happened? Is it Arya? They found her body? Or did Theon…” 

He lets his voice fade, refusing to let his imagination go further. There are so many things ironborn are infamous for, so many things they do to prisoners. _And Bran can’t even defend himself._

“No.” Ser Brynden says, turning to Jon, and there is an odd look in his eyes.

“We’ve had no word of your brothers, or sister,” He continues, his voice unexpectedly soft. “No, I am afraid that it’s His Grace who is hurt.”

“They fear he might not survive the night.”


	4. Catelyn II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are with Catelyn’s POV again, with lots of Cat & Jon interaction because the world needs it. In case you are wondering how the events with Robb and Jon played out, that scene will be added to the other outtakes and will be up in about a day or so.
> 
> Also, completely unrelated, but I thought I’d share: this Sunday I had the great pleasure to go see Roger Waters’s The Wall Live show. It was, simply put it, maybe the best experience in my life, and by far the best concert I’ve ever seen. If you happen to live in Europe go buy a ticket like, right now – it’s something amazing.

**I**

Catelyn hears of her son’s greatest victory on a bright morning; and by the evening she also knows  that Robb is on the blink of death.

 _Or might be dead already_ , but she ignores the thought, shoving it away to a secluded corner of her mind. After everything she has been through, after all she has lost, she cannot bear to hear that Robb might be gone as well, not Robb. Not her firstborn.

She spends her day confined to her father’s rooms, listening to feverish confessions and last regrets, Lord Hoster’s ravings adding to her worries. There is a new message every day, it seems, and though Catelyn isn’t quite a prisoner she is not promptly informed of sensible news either, having to rely on the gossiping of bedmaids and young guards to know what is happening in the world, and that is often not quite as accurate as it should be.

They say that Lord Tywin Lannister is dead, and that Stannis killed him. No, she’s heard another time, it was Robb who killed Tywin, and the Lord of the Rock cursed him with his dying breath. Tywin is still alive, someone else whispers, and he is riding to King’s Landin as fast as he can, to break the Tyrell siege. Another time she hears that Lord Stannis has already taken King’s Landing, putting lord and lady of the court to the sword, and that scares her the most of all.

 _Sansa and Arya are in King’s Landing_ , she tells herself, and as the days pass she realizes that even Jaime Lannister won’t change a thing for her daughters if he wasn’t able to enter King’s Landing when he arrived.

 _Stannis will give us the girls back if he takes the city. He’s a honorable man_. And then she remembers a silken tent and a shadow, and how Renly died in the middle of his camp, and she doesn’t quite believe that anymore. For her daughters’ safety, she could almost bring herself to wish for a Lannister victory, and sometimes she feels like laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Catelyn is told that Robb is recovering only a full day after Ser Desmond is informed of the fact, but she doesn’t complain. She goes to the godswood instead, because somehow she feels that her southron gods aren’t the ones she should be thanking for this miracle, and stands praying in front of the heart tree until the day turns to dusk.

It will be a while before Robb will be at Riverrun again, Ser Desmond tells her, with the bulk of his host still in the West to prevent any Lannister soldier to move for King’s Landing, and with Robb himself not being able to endure an intense march. But he _will_ be back, the only one of all her children to do so, and it is enough.

Edmure comes to visit every so often, trying to strike up a conversation with Father and glancing awkwardly in her direction. He feels uncomfortable with her being here, Catelyn can tell, likely worrying about her asking something she shouldn’t –  and the tense conversation that would follow – and Catelyn usually asks to be escorted to the sept when she knows her brother is coming.

She does have rather a lot to make penance for, after all.

It is for this reason that she feels surprised on that evening, when Martem knocks on the door and announces a visitor to her father’s chambers. She knows it is not Edmure – they would have informed her first, and he’s come already once this morning – but she cannot think of anyone else who would come to her, not after what she did.

And when she tells the guard to let her visitor in, casting a curious gaze at the door, she finds herself staring into Jon Snow’s intense grey eyes.

 _Ned’s grey eyes_ , she realizes with a wince, taking in how much he looks like the man she married seventeen years prior in this very castle – no longer a mere family resemblance, but now a striking similarity that leaves her speechless.

She thinks he might have asked permission to enter, with the same icy coolness he’s always showed her, and she must have told him yes, because it is the courteous thing to do and she is always courteous, always doing the proper thing… except the once, she remembers, and hears her voice saying, _It should have been you_ , but it barely matters anymore since Bran is dead all the same, broken back or not.

It is _too much_ , after her babes and Winterfell and Robb, after she held her husband’s bones in her hands and tried to remember the man –  after everything, Snow reappears into her life looking like a ghost from the past, and it is a while before she speaks.

“Robb sent you,” she says, eventually, because what else could be?

He looks awkward sat on one of Lord Hoster’s chairs in Lord Hoster’s smaller sitting room, as far from her father’s bedchamber as he could be. He looks around warily, and takes in a breath before answering.

“Yes.”

And then. “How are you, Lady Catelyn?”

She wants to laugh.

She truly wants to, wondering for a brief moment if Robb sent him to do this, too _– bring my orders to Riverrun and when you talk to my mother make sure to ask her if she’s well first_ – because it doesn’t sound like something Jon Snow would ever say on his own volition. There is too much off Ned in him to play pretend.

She tells him as much. “Does it matter?”

“It does to Robb,” he answers, and she nods, not even bothering pointing out that Robb will never know what they talk about today until he gets here himself. It doesn’t matter. Robb is what binds them, they both know as much, and it is a good thing to remember it.

“Well enough. And _how_ is my son?”

He knows what she’s asking. Not merely asking after the king’s health;  she’s had quite enough of that already. _How is my son?_

“As well as it can be expected. Considering.”

 _Yes, considering_. Catelyn has had more awkward conversations in her life, she is sure, but she cannot remember any now.

“It was a shoulder wound, a spear” Snow offers after a moment, and Catelyn is glad he’s saving her the humiliation to ask. It is quite one thing for everyone to know that she is nothing more a prisoner in her quarters, not even to be trusted with such a small piece of information; but rather a different thing to admit it.

 _Or maybe,_ a part of her retorts _, stubbornly, Ser Desmond did not know the nature of Robb’s  injury either_. Ravens carry short messages. _Perhaps…_

“Robb… His Grace did not thought much of it, and neither did anyone else, I am told. He didn’t realize how much blood he’d lost until it was almost too late, and he was feverish for days afterwards.” He keeps his eyes on a point right above her left shoulder.

“It would have been a bloody stupid way to die,” he adds in a half laugh, half  snarl that likely wasn’t meant to be heard, but Catelyn understands. There are undertones of some sort of hysteria in that laugh, much like what she’s heard coming from her own throat sometimes.

Yes, she understands.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me what happened in King’s Landing?” She asks, not really hoping for an answer. And then, remembering exactly what he said. “You were told? You were not with him?”

She is almost indignant at that. For how much she’s complained about Snow over the years, she has almost come to rely on him being at Robb’s side, always.

“Where were you?”

And what he entertains her with is a long tale of war and madness and death, not unlike what she used to hear from Father during Robert’s war and Ned after the Greyjoy Rebellion, in the exact same voice she remembers the Blackfish recount his stories back when she was a girl.

They both get lost in the war, Catelyn will remember later, him forgetting just whom he was speaking with, so caught up in what he was saying, and her not really caring anymore. He tells her of a chase with Tywin Lannister amongst the western hills, and how the mighty Lord of Casterly Rock had to run gravely wounded with his tail between his legs, and might be dead as they speak.

Snow adds the last part with a sort of candid cheerfulness too straightforward to be anything but genuine contentment, and by his voice it wouldn’t even seem he was wishing a man dead. He doesn’t seem too see it as nothing but an unexpected good news, not really paying attention to all the possible political ramification, and Catelyn finds it to be contagious. She needs things to go well, at least for a while.

Snow realizes halfway through his speech that she truly has heard nothing about King’s Landing and proceed to explain, sounding even more eager than he did while describing Robb’s fighting in the West, and Catelyn realizes that they must have talked more tonight than they have ever done.

“Stannis’s taken the harbor,” he says, “and most of the city as well, but the Tyrells joined in with Joffrey and their host is right outside the walls. There is fighting in the streets, ,for days now, and the king and all his court are shut inside on Aegon’s Hill.”

 _Do you realize what this means?_ Catelyn wants to ask, but of course he does, he must. Still, she needs to hear someone saying it.

Fighting in the city, between Joffrey’s men and Stannis’s. Tywin in the westerlands, wounded, defeated, unable to go East and join the Tyrells. Their enemies, quite possibly destroying one another.

 _We are winning_.

* * *

 

**II**

 Catelyn had guessed right, but not quite. Jon Snow has indeed been sent by Robb to bring his orders to Riverrun, but she quickly learns that there’s more to it – he is to escort her away as well.

 _He’s been wanting me to leave for months and now I’ve finally given him a chance myself_ , she thinks bitterly, and it doesn’t seem to matter to Robb that the riverlands are safe now, or that her lord father might soon be dead. But Robb needs her, and so does his kingdom.

They leave on a cold grey morning as the sun rises golden on the Red Fork, the Lady Stark and her husband’s bastard, riding North to pick a bride fit for a king. It sounds like a singer’s story, but not one of the pretty ones Sansa likes – no knights and dragons in this one, but it’s not sad enough to be a tragedy either.

One day, as they pass by Oldstones, Catelyn decides their song must be a bawdy one. The kind drunken men sing in taverns, the kind they play at weddings, odd and rough and with some unexpected ending turning everything on its head and then some.

“How is Robb in such a hurry to get married?” She remembers inquiring on that first day, irking at having to ask _Snow_ of all people, but too curious to care. “He wasn’t that keen on the idea the last time we…”

Snow does not answer, does not say a word, and merely looks at her as she puts together the pieces in her head.

_Oh._

Robb was not keen on the idea of marriage last time Catelyn saw him, but now, he has no heir. And isn’t it odd, how she keeps forgetting it, only to be reminded again and again? _And it hurts more and more every time_.

They do not talk much after that, and yet Catelyn finds herself oddly glad for this silent companionship, for his presence with her. As long as Snow is with her she has an excuse, of sort, to hold on to her calmness and control.

It would not do for Jon Snow to see her cry.

They are received by Lord Frey a great deal more warmly than they were last time, with a proper feast in one of the towers. Catelyn, who has been dreading this moment for days, half-scared already of whatever cruel jape Lord Walder could come up with, with both her and Snow in the same room, is pleasantly surprised when this does not happen.

Lord Frey merely orders Snow, quite loudly, to keep away from his daughters and granddaughters, and it is almost a relief. _You are to watch, not to sample_ , he says, and they are presented with a display of young maids instead, and some who aren’t maids either. _Old Walder must really, really want to see one of his blood in bed with a king before he dies,_ Catelyn finds herself thinking, and it cannot be too far from the truth.

She hoped for Ser Sevron’s granddaughter to be at the Twins as well, a young girl with green eyes and a soft smile, but her name is a Vance and not Frey, and Lord Walder does not care for those who do not share his name.

In two days she talks to them all, fair and homely and harsh and kind. They are all so different, all Freys. She goes for a walk with one girl and takes supper with another, wishing all the time that she were back at Riverrun instead. She finds she quite like young, sweet Zia, and even Alyx whose mother is from Braavos and who is too crafty by half; and one day Snow comes to her and lets her know that he quite disagrees, and Catelyn feels a sort of dark amusement in wondering just how they managed to go from politely ignoring one another to  comparing opinions into the night.

It was loneliness, she supposed, the feeling of being surrounded by strangers in such an enormous place, but whatever the reason is they often find each other to talk in the godswood come night. Once he even came to her chambers, Catelyn remembers, and he brought wine.

The last time she has shared wine with someone, it had been the Kingslayer.

That night he points her to a shy young thing of fifteen years old named Roslin, and she thinks, _Of course he would_.

“She is lovely,” she concedes. “But she will have an hard time in childbirth.”

That seems to irk Snow somehow, and Catelyn refrains herself from saying anything among the lines of, _This is what highborn lords do_ , because she can remember how it went last time, and that reminds her of Arya too much.

“She’s not a broodmare,” Snow says, and this time Catelyn really wants to add how _that_ is all Walder Frey sees in of his daughters, but in the end she does not because she suspect Snow knows that as well.

_Not much different from Sansa and her tales of romantic love, when it comes to it._

In the end the final decision will be Robb’s, however, and he sends word a week into their visit announcing his decision to march to the Twins as well, with his army.

Ser Kevan is the one making decision for the Lannister host, Robb writes, and whatever this means for the health of his older brother is merely speculation. Lord Stannis’s siege of the Red Keep goes on day after day, with the Gold Cloaks turned over to his side and, had it been any other man but Stannis Baratheon under Aegon’s Hill, the king’s men would have surrendered already.

As things are, her son concludes, Stannis is the one doing the siege and he would sooner hang every Lannister man who surrendered to his side rather than let Cersei go, and he doesn’t quite see the point in warring against Casterly Rock when he has the North to take back. _Let the stag and the lion destroy themselves_ , he concludes, and Catelyn idly wonders what a Stannis’s victory in King’s Landing would mean for Sansa.

He arrives at dusk, like a true King of Winter, to choose a bride and head home once again.

* * *

 

**III**

“ _You –_ ”

Robb doesn’t quite seem to have found the words he is looking for, half stuttering and half spitting, and Catelyn does her best to try understand what the problem seems to be.

She has been pointing out some of the Frey girls to her son, all as discretely as it can be done, when he suddenly stopped and glared at Snow – because a glare it has to be, she truly has no other words to describe it.

“You little _shit_ ,” he says, eventually, and he doesn’t seem angry enough, or Snow apologetic enough, for it to be too serious of a slight. “You did it on purpose.”

And yet he is angry, if only somewhat. She doesn’t dare ask – their relationship has been an uneasy one since his arrival. He still hasn’t forgiven her, despite the news of the Lannisters’ defeat coming in from the East almost every other day. The Kingslayer is still at large, and it burns.

Snow is shrugging now, avoiding to look Robb in the eyes.

“I thought you might like her,” he says, and Catelyn finally follows their gazes to the firm, slim figure of Roslin Frey sat by a fireplace with her brother Olyvar in tow.

“She looks like…” her son begins, then stops, taking in Lady Roslin big brown eyes and sweet face, the way she tilts her head when she is laughing, the sound of her voice that is nothing more than a vague echo from such a distance.

“But it is not her,” Robb concludes, and Catelyn decides she doesn’t want to know.

Loves are forged and broken and lost in war, and she knows that better than many others.

* * *

 

**IV**

They have one serious conversation after his return, and she doesn’t like it.

Robb knew already she wouldn’t have, of course, but what choice does she have but to agree, disgraced as she is? _What is done is done_ , Robb tells her, _and there is no taking it back_.

She realizes what he means quickly enough.

“Jon is my heir,” he says, and she has to stop a laugh from escaping her lips. Hasn’t this been her own worst fear, a lifetime ago? It was the height summer then, and life was far easier, and Catelyn wonders how petty she must have been, to consider Jon Snow the worst menace her sons could face.

“Sansa…” she offers, slowly, because she already knows what he will say, even before he moves to shake his head. Snd no one has heard anything of her eldest daughter since the day of the first battle in the Blackwater. Some are even saying she fled the city, and Catelyn hopes with all he heart it’s true.

Still, a young girl is no leader in wartime, even a Stark; and they both know it.

“Did your lords agree to a legitimization?” she asks, and there is no much she can say to object when he gives a nod. She supposes she should even be glad for Snow’s presence, in case anything should happen, _What a cruel way the gods have, to mock us all from above_.

“He did not tell me anything.”

At that, Robb makes a face, something that is almost a snort, but not quite. “We have other concerns right now, Mother.”

That they do. “You will have a new heir soon enough,” she tells him, and he nods.

* * *

 

**V**

Robb marries Fair Walda Frey a mere fortnight after his arrival to the Twins, fastening his cloak around his new wife’s neck in a swift move and speaking his vows in a voice that is firm and strong, and she likes to thin he seems happy that day.

The feast is grand enough to be fit for a king, the wine flows freely and his men jape and sing and leer for hours on end. He musters a smile when the time comes, so unlike his solemn father on her own wedding day, and while it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, it’s near enough to make no matter.

Roslin Frey is the one who unfastens his shirt before the bedding, and she can see him wince before remembering himself, before all of the other maids and women make their way to join in. As for the bride, is Jon Snow – _is he even still Jon Snow?_ – who takes off her new grey cloak and unties her hair free with an unusually tender gesture, letting it fall over her face.

Her hair is a pale brown, Catelyn notices, and her eyes are almost as blue as Robb’s, and so unlike those of Roslin – and of  the unnamed woman who must have walked away with some piece of her son’s heart – for it to be a deliberate choice. The two girls are different as night and day, she decides, and if Lady Walda is rumoured not to be a maid… well, her son doesn’t seem to care about that as well, and she wonders if perhaps that is another point in her favour, another way to tell her apart from the nameless ghost that haunts his dreams, whomever she is.

She finds herself sat at the high table long after the king and his new queen have retired for the night, followed by almost anyone else, and the only people remaining in the great all are too drunk to stand up properly. Jon is there as well, playing absentmindedly with one of Lord Frey’s silver goblets, and their eyes meet.

“They will be happy,” he says, answering that half question she didn’t dare to voice, and she takes in a deep breath.

“Gods, I hope so,” she lets herself whisper fervently, and she feels a wave of heath realizing she’s said that out loud.

Jon pretends not to notice and rises up  to excuse himself.

“I believe I will be going to bed,” he says, with a sort of unsteady half-bow that makes her wonder just how much he’s had to drink. “Goodnight, Lady Stark.”

And she drank some as well, thinking of Ned and her own bedding in Riverrun. “Goodnight, Jon,” she answers, and only realizes what she said when she sees his eyes go wide.

Catelyn spends awhile that night trying to pinpoint the exact moment he went from being _Snow_ to being _Jon_ in her head, before realizing she doesn’t care, and going to sleep.

* * *

 

**VI**

The northern host leaves the Twins for Moat Cailin two days later, and it is only three hours into their ride that they are stopped by the messenger.

The man is dressed like one of the smallfolk, if not for the long dagger at his belt. His cloak looks as though it might have been a bright yellow once, but is now dirty and faded, and yet he asks to speak with Robb and with him only.

“I come from Lord Beric Dondarrion,” he says, his lips curled into a smile. “I do believe we have something of yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, this is it. For now. I am currently working on a sequel that will deal with the events in the latter part of AFFC plus ADWD, and will be heavy on the northern stuff and the Catelyn & Jon interactions, because they’re pure gold. The folks beyond-the-wall and the Others will also be in, plus lots of Stark awesomness. And, if you’re wondering what’s the deal with Sansa, or what happened to Jaime, well… that’ll be in the sequel, too. 
> 
> See ya tomorrow with the last bit!
> 
> So, I'm [on tumblr](http://www.justoldlights.tumblr.com/) a lot lately. It's a thing. Prompt me stuff?


	5. Extra

**OUTTAKE #1:** In which Jon leaves the Wall – before chapter one.

The raven arrives on the morning before Jon is to take his oath.

Dark wings, dark words, they say, but Jon can’t help but be thankful to the speed of those wings that saved him from making the wrong choice. The Lord Commander hands him the message in silence, two sentences in Maester Luwin’s hand, and as their eyes meet they both know what he’s going to do.

There’s wight and Others and all sort of creatures on the other side of the Wall, but there won’t be anything left to guard if the North goes to war. Someone will find Benjen Stark, Jon hopes, but he already knows that someone won’t be him.

“I am sorry,” he tells Lord Mormont, remembering that desperate night of bitter cold and bright flames, feeling the heat on his burnt hand all over again. “I am sorry, but I cannot stay here. He is–” Jon’s voice breaks and he feels heat on his cheeks, angry with himself, and he takes in a deep breath.

“–He is all I have, my Lord.”

There is a twinkle of something in the Lord Commander’s eyes, and Jon is remembered of what th other man told him, of Ser Jorah and his exile. Yes, Jon decides, Jeor Mormont knows exactly how he feels.

“Then go, boy, if you wish. Go to your brother.” Jon nods in thanks and the Lord Commander speaks again, his voice laced with undertones Jon cannot decipher. “You may keep the sword. Use it well.”

“I… Thank you, my Lord.”

Jon finds himself thinking furiously, trying to come up with something else to say, and Mormont laughs. Jon’s face reddens again, and he knows he must surely be making a spectacle of himself, his mouth half open, blushing like a maiden on her wedding night.

“Don’t thank me, Jon Snow. Do your duty.”

“Yes, my Lord.” He feels like he ought to add something, to offer something else in exchange, but he has nothing to give. “I will tell Lord Stark of what happened.” The walking dead. Blue eyes and black skin and things waking beyond the Wall. “He will send men, when the war is over.”

And of course he will. There are always new men for the Wall, when a war ends. “If things go badly, my Lord, I suppose I will be saying you again soon.”

Mormont laughs again at that, full heartedly instead of mockingly, and Jon realizes he will miss him, and Samwell Tarly, and the ragged band of men guarding the wall of ice at the end of the world, and he says his farewells and rides away to Winterfell.

* * *

**OUTTAKE #2:** In which Jon meets with Jeyne Westerling, and it’s not pretty – right after chapter two.

He is clearly not the person she is expecting to enter her room, and it takes less than a heartbeat for that pleasant smile to die on her face.

Jon observes her face, reading her expression. _Expectation, then surprise_. Jeyne Westerling is young, with brown eyes and hair and a full figure, and she has a sweet air about her. He can see what attracted Robb, her warm smile and soft face and the look of someone who has never ever had an unpleasant thought in her life. _Surprise and interest. She is wondering who I am._ She is a good person without doubt, fresh and safe, so unlike _anything_ Jon has seen since the beginning of the war, and he suddenly knows how Robb felt.

 _Worry. She fears I know. Perhaps she has recognized me from Robb’s description, or else she cannot imagine another reason why a northman should come seek her in her own room. She is scared._ Jeyne Westerling is also very comely, and Jon can see that, too. She is not striking in the way some women are, but she is pretty and soft and comforting, the kind of woman a men would like to return home to, to share his bed and raise his children. She is not a mistress; she is a wife, evey bit the proper lady of Catelyn Stark’s teachings to her daughters.

 _Acceptance. She knows this was to happen, sooner or later_. She is trying to compose herself. Only a moment has passed, a long moment that is more of an agony, and Jon is cursing his brother for putting him in this situation, cursing himself for making the offer. _She is prepared to make her case, to defend herself. Determination_.

“Lady Jeyne,” he offers with a bow of his head. Being the king’s brother without having a real standing is one of the things Jon enjoys the best of his positions. It allows him to be courteous to people who deserve his respect, and downright rude to those who don’t.

“I am Jon Snow,” he add, though he is sure she already knows.

She nods to him in response, a bland smile on her face. “Of course,” her voice is trembling, a little, though she hides it well. “And what can I do for you?”

Jon exhales slowly, almost a sigh. _Robb, you bloody fool_. “We are departing in two days”

Her face pales a little, her hands tighten on the tissue of her gown more than they should, and she does not speak.

But that is not enough of a reaction for Jon, not enough to know for sure if she understood fully what he is saying. And so he speaks again, his words like blades, meant to hurt.

“I hope you understand, Lady Jeyne. We are leaving with the first lights the day after next, but we would gladly depart on the morrow if the king weren’t hurt.” He hands her small package wrapped in cloth. “ _This_ is tansy. You have bee discreet, no one will need to know. His Grace will be busy planning our next move, and he will not have time to see you.”

Jeyne sits on her bed slowly, and Jon struggles not to show any emotion on his face. He is getting better and better at that since the war started, taking on the role of Robb’s most honest advisor like a fish to water. His lords all means well, except for the ones who do not, but even they are scared to speak their minds sometimes, for fear of retribution or loss of influence, but Jon has no such qualms.

He does not care for anything, has no position to improve and nothing to lose, only Robb’s best interest at heart, and lets his judgments take precedence over anything else in his life. He is getting cooler and cooler, he looks at his face on the mirror and hates himself. _Today is not different_.

Jeyne is looking at her hands in her lap now, and Jon is glad he cannot see her face. “Does he not even wish to look at me now, then?”

Her voice sounds so small and sad and so very young. _Yes_ , he should say. _Yes, he has no need for you anymore after he got what he wanted, he does not want to lay eyes on you for as long as he lives, you had better forget him, Jeyne, starting today._

But he doesn’t.

“He fancies himself in love with you,” he says instead, and Jeyne’s head jerks up, eyes full of love and confusion and pain.

“But then –”

“– But he is not,” Jon cuts her off before she can speak, perhaps harsher than he meant to be. “And neither are you, milady. You have known each other for less than a week, whatever is that you are feeling will go away if you give it the chance.”

“And the king cannot afford to. He has a duty to his people, and we are at war.” _Against you_ , hangs unspoken in the air between them. “And he is to be married soon, and you do not deserve that life.”

“I would rather,” she begins, trying to collect her words “I would rather have some part of him than –”

“You will not.” He interrupts her again, and she stops. _If it had been Arya_ , he cannot help but think _, she would have kept talking ‘til I gave up, louder and louder until we both went deaf._ “Look at me, I know of what I speak. _You don’t deserve it_ , and neither do you children. Forget him.”

They stare at each other for the longest time, neither knowing what to say, Jon wishing he could bring himself to look away.

“It will be hard,” she says, eventually.

I’m sorry, Jon wants to say, but he doesn’t. “You will need to make tea.” He says, instead. “It is very bitter, I am told, and you should add mint to it, better if fresh, and – ”

“Yes.” She is the one interrupting him, this time, and Jon finds himself oddly glad. _At least she is not broken_. “I know how it’s done.”

 _That’s interesting_ , Jon thinks, but all he wants to do now is to leave the Crag as soon as can, and cannot bring himself to stay in the same room as Jeyne Westerling anymore.

“I wish you well,” he tells her before leaving, and he truly means it.

* * *

**OUTTAKE #3:** In which Robb doesn’t die – between chapters three and four.

Tonight is the third one Jon has spent by his brother’s bed, and the first time he is awake enough to talk to him.

He’s had three days to think of all the things he needs to say, all the things he _will_ say, when Robb wakes up. _When, not_ _if_. And yet when it happens, when Jon lets his gaze wander around the tent and on Robb’s unconscious form, only to find pair of intense blue eyes staring back at him…when it happens, there is nothing he can say.

_But then again, words are wind, aren’t them?_

He can only stare right back, not moving, not even daring to breathe, wishing with all his heart that what he’s seeing is real, that he hasn’t fallen asleep and started to dream.

He does not say a thing, and it is Robb who breaks the silence first.

“You made it back, then.”

Or at least he tries to, because his throat is raw and sore, and his voice break before he can finish the phrase. Jon understands the meaning well enough, though, and smiles a grim smile before moving to fetch some water, willing his heart to slow down.

Robb doesn’t seem satisfied with that meager an answer, however, and makes a gesture almost as if wanting to speak before Jon puts a hand on his chest and shakes his head.

“Please.” He says, and helps him drink down some.

“We made it back alright,” he tells Robb as he slowly moves to sit down. “And Daryn Hornwood can’t stop complaining about how we could have killed Tywin if we had been more lucky.”

He doesn’t tell Robb how he is well pleased enough with what he has, considers himself lucky enough to still be alive. Robb is probably thinking the same himself, and it wouldn’t do to have him worry even more. So he keeps his voice light and amused instead, and there’s nothing more amusing going on in their camp than Hornwood’s constant grumbling. _He looks as though someone made it away with his bride on his wedding feast_ , Jon has heard Lord Umber joke with Patrek Mallister, and it sounds close enough to the truth.

“We had an ambush set up and everything,” Jon continues, taking care to sound like it is nothing, as if they were chatting over a meal rather than on what could have been Robb’s deathbed. “We very ready, and he didn’t show up. Although it sounds like you have saved us the effort, or close enough.”

Jon has heard the news from the Blackfish himself as he escorted him to Robb’s tent on that first night. Ser Brynden had told him, sounding as pleased as he could be under the circumstances, of how Grey Wind had jumped on Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Hand of the King, and _bit_. Hard.

 _Tywin wasn’t in the front lines, he’s no fool,_ Jon remembers the Blackfish saying _, but the sun was setting and his men losing, and he was looking to the retreat in the battleground, not caring much for the woods they were in._

In the end, he’d continued, Grey Wind had come back to them with three quarrels in his fur, one of them a rather serious wound to his back, and it had taken a while for the northmen to pierce together what’d happened, mostly thanks Brynden’s scouts and outriders, who had referred that the surviving Lannister’s men, Tywin nowhere to be seen, were making it for Sarsfield as fast as they could. _He might even have lost a leg_ , the Blackfish said, rather cheerfully. _Or an arm_.

They are in silence for a while, each one absorbed in his own thoughts, enjoying the familiarity of just staying there, together, again.

“I should go call your squire,” Jon remembers suddenly. “Olyvar. I think you scared him.” _Almost as much as you scared me_.

“He would probably be here as well, if I hadn’t let him sleep.” Since that day at the Crag, since receiving news from Winterfell, Jon hasn’t slept much, but sleep is a precious commodity in war, and there’s little point in waking Olyvar Frey when he could keep vigil himself.

“He will fetch –” Who? They don’t have a maester with them, and Jon wonders who was it that first took care of Robb after the battle. He wasn’t told and hasn’t cared to find out, but then again, had he known who it was he would probably blame him for Robb’s condition. _This is better._

“He will fetch someone,” Jon tells Robb, and it’s a promise. “He will fetch someone, to take care of you, and you will be well again.”

* * *

**Jon and Asha AU SCENE:** In which Robb had his way in AGOT and sent Umber against Tywin, and Roose Bolton is still around to scare people when Robb needs him to.

“Does the Wolf King despise us so much that he sends a bastard as his envoy?” Her voice is harsh and sour, and yet she laughs. “And a green one at that. How old are you, winter boy?”

Jon turns to see Lady Asha staring defiantly at him, smiling. “ _His Grace_ sent you Lord Bolton,” he tells her, calmly. “As his envoy. And _his brother_ , as a token, which he thought Lord Greyjoy of all people might appreciate.”

He normally would not have talked to anyone that way, much less the daughter of Balon Greyjoy, but Jon supposes that two weeks of Roose Bolton’s cutting sarcasm in close quarters must have left their sign.

“Seeing how his son and heir is fighting Lannisters in the Westerlands.”

Asha laughs, looking at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. Neither of them paid much attention to the other when they were first introduced, and Jon regrets that now.

“Son, now, I suppose that must be true. Heir, that is another matter entirely.” And she gives him a grin.

Jon looks at her with the same attention she gave him, taking notice of her stern eye and daring air – and noticing other things as well. There is something in this woman that reminds him of Osha, the wildling he has briefly met at Winterfell, and yet she is beautiful, in her own way, as much as Catelyn Stark or any lady he has ever seen, her brashness only adding to her appeal.

“I don’t think you will be of much use,” she says, and Jon has to blink for a moment before remembering their previous conversation.

“Have you ever even _been_ on a ship, Snow?”

He never had, before leaving Seagard, but he is not going to say it. Of course, he doesn’t need to

“I thought so. Father will never let you join us, you know. You will stay here in Pike, with the old and the babes, while we take Casterly Rock.”

Jon lets her talk. Balon Greyjoy will never let Robb Stark’s brother, albeit a bastard, stay safe in his castle whilst his men go dying fighting Robb Stark’s enemies, and they both know it. But Asha Greyjoy is much like her brother, Jon has noticed, in that she seems like she is mocking the whole world.

“Or maybe you can be a cabin boy,” she continues, amused. “Would you like that? Cleaning my clothes and making me breakfast?”

And then she moves closer, walking as through she were on a ship’s deck, hair loose and laughing fully once again and, in that very moment, she is the most beautiful woman Jon Snow has ever seen.

“You surely look the part,” she whispers into his ear.

And how is he supposed to take that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I guess that’s all, for now. I'll start working on the sequel in a couple of months, thanks so much for reading!  
> Also, to the anon on FFN who suggested I kill Robb in the sequel: yep, that would make for awesome character development alright, but I think it would be incredibly angsty if I actually did it. Still, it does have its appeal, thanks, I definitely wasn’t expecting _that_ suggestion, but I’ll see what comes from it.
> 
> I'm [on tumblr](http://www.justoldlights.tumblr.com/) a lot lately. It's a thing. Prompt me stuff?


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